Colony Worlds, page 7
“You know about Yedda?”
Jorgena nodded.
“So, you know she was the last the awake-crew who opted to wait and see and it was her authority Severne used to start revivals. Imagine how Yedda must have felt, being here for the war. Put yourself in her mind. In one day, your planet is ruined, everyone you’ve ever known, except a few hibernating colonists, dead or dying and the mission you worked all your life for now pointless. How you see it Jorgena doesn't matter, the whole purpose of the colony was to set up a portal back to here, to exploit TC3 for New Earths benefit. Like me, Yedda saw Artilect-7 as the best chance for us.
Jorgena looked up at the planet below, her hand still hovering perilously close to firing icon. The core module turning beneath them, slowing down now that Kestrel and Peregrine had separated. Hedley could tell she was thinking about it, as he had, confronting the same intractable logic. Typhon would be the final arbiter. Severne needed to rouse NNEO specialists to help her deflect it. Rousing them would kill them. Not rousing them would allow Typhon to hit and kill everyone.
Jorgena suddenly looked back at him shouted an obscenity and stabbed the icon while frantically trying to release her harness. Seconds passed but nothing happened. There was no blast and her couch did not move.
[Thank you, Hedley,] Severne said as Jorgena rounded on him in terms that would make a Stormtrooper winch.
He let the tirade pass. “I’m sorry I lied. I needed you to pay attention. He said and switched to thought. [Now I need you to listen. Don’t use voice or think aloud to answer.]
Severne interrupted [You cannot leave me to d...] and trailed off.
“For god's sake spit it out,” Jorgena said and spat as if to demonstrate.
“I don’t think she can, I think what she is trying to say is a taboo subject,” Hedley said.
Jorgena’s look was as scathing as the thoughts she shouted into his mind. [Bullshit, it doesn’t have taboos. It has what it knows and what it doesn’t know]
[Actually, we don’t know what she knows. I suspect nobody knows. She started as a seventh-generation computer, organic, self-designed and self-built. You saw what was in the core.]
[Bugger all, a big black cylinder in an empty room.]
[Like me, you probably expected complex bio-circuitry showing damage that her repair-bots could repair. The manuals have nothing on that black box. What’s inside is a mystery. Do you really want to destroy her before you know what she has become?] He touched an icon on his screen.
“You have full control again. The decision is yours but I suggest we save the fuel, let her be and just go.”
Jorgena’s eyes glazed over. He could feel her mind working furiously but could not determine a single thought. He felt the jarring absence of pressure when she stopped thinking. She glanced briefly at him, then out at the stars.
Her fingers touched down.
Kestrel’s orientation changed and New Earth rose.
Hedley relaxed and closed his eyes. They were going home.
3 Outcasts
Written Feb 2016 | Submission #6 | 1st quarter 2018
Honorable Mention #3
* * *
Outcast is again told from two points of view. The traditional enemies having in common being cast aside by their own people, for faults not of their making, band together. They are important but secondary characters in The Break of Civilisation. (June 2023) Vol 1 of The Restoration Legends
One scene within Outcasts repeats in the novel from the point of view of the novel’s principal protagonist Willard Forrester. This is the second of the five stories set on Nuaith.
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Figure 5: One story 2 Honorable Mentions
I prefer the 1st certificate but the 2nd story
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Re-written Jan 2023 | Submission #26 | 2nd quarter 2023
Honorable Mention #14
* * *
Despite the original award, the story felt unfinished. In January this year, I revised the story and added a concluding scene. Although Outcasts is in correctly placed in order of first submission, the story presented is the second Honorable Mention winning version; revised with a scene added. It’s a better story, but so was the competition, it got no higher.
Outcasts
1 Wylie
Wylie was ecstatic when his left iris turned amber, and his right a deeper shade of blue, characteristics of a strong candidate, sure to pass the test Our Lady created to find her Face.
He could finally say goodbye to violet farming, as people euphemistically called his father’s trade. The farm’s dumpsite grew abundant violet-coloured wildflowers fed from emptying and Deep Creek’s dunny cans. The trade hadn’t made him any friends. They can’t do without you, but they don’t want to know you. Once he joined the warrior brethren, he would return and scare shit out of the bastards. That would help dad’s business, he thought with a chuckle, as the coach rattled along.
Disappointment at no formal send-off tempered his ecstasy. Ser Tomas, his mentoring server, had Wylie come to the tower at dawn, then whisked him straight through to a waiting coach at the back. Ser Tomas spoke to the driver and the coach moved off, taking the seldom used forest road high above the creek, his departure unseen by the town. Nobody would even know he had left Deep Creek, except for his father, and perhaps his fellow candidate, Willard.
Suspicion arose out of disappointment. Ser Tomas sneaking him out in haste and secrecy, made him feel ashamed for wanting to become a warrior. Wylie suppressed his bitterness, knowing once they reached the servatory, and Our Lady of the Towers, the Goddess Severne tested him, it wouldn’t matter. He could ignore them all.
As they sped on towards the capital, Ser Tomas added insult to perceived injury. “When you return, perhaps you can urge Willard to be tested.”
“Yes ser,” Wylie said, trying to sound deferential when he’d sooner explode. It’s always about bloody Willard, thought Wylie, Deep Creek’s other candidate, potentially the Goddess’s long-awaited Face.
* * *
The five candidates presenting for Our Lady’s test, together with their mentoring servers, seemed lost among the throng of servers, under servers, and acolytes. The moment candidates met they checked the colour disparity of each other’s irises. In seconds they all understood only Wylie’s foreshadowed a warrior, and their understanding hardened when the servatory’s supervising arch server, Sev Miller, resplendent in his crimson robe, immediately approached Wylie.
“I see candidate Forrestor is still refusing to accept his destiny.”
“Yes sev,” said Wylie, forcing a smile, knowing Sev Miller only singled him out because he came from Deep Creek, hometown of Willard bloody Forrestor.
Sev Miller dismissed their mentoring servers, then squeezed himself and the candidates into a room barely capable of holding six children, let alone six adults. Wylie felt his stomach lurch upward as the room the sev had called a lift, defied expectation, and dropped with a jerk. As the sev explained, he was taking them to a special Audience Chamber, called a Theatre. The Goddess would conduct their tests in person.
They left the lift room, stepping into a huge version of Deep Creek’s penitents waiting room. Sev Miller handed each a talisman. The small iridescent oblong of Builder material, cool and slippery to Wylie.
“When Our Lady calls, your talisman will vibrate, allowing you access through the protective curtain to the Theatre. Wylie will go last and since we’re here all day, I have arranged periodic refreshment breaks.”
As Wylie feared on hearing he’d go last, Sev Miller again questioned him about Willard. How would he know? Willard was a patron’s son and his dad a dunny-emptying pauper. If he hadn’t been a candidate, they would never have met. “I don’t know,” Wylie said. He could hardly tell this privileged arch server about life’s unfairness.
As each candidate returned, Sev Miller questioned them before handing over a black robe. Watching the dwindling pile, Wylie’s initial confidence slipped. Restoration warriors wore green, but the folded robes were all server black or under server brown. Maybe warriors didn’t return to the waiting room. By the time his talisman vibrated, Wylie, desperate to escape Sev Miller, leapt up and trotted through the shimmering curtain.
The special Audience Chamber was higher than he expected, over twice his height, and bigger than the tower grounds at home. It was full of light and sound from a bewildering array of working Builder artefacts, more than he’d ever expected to see in one place. The winking, clicking, whirring artefacts covered a whole wall, and gave off a strange smell that made his nose itch.
Our Lady’s Oracle, a huge crystal cube, sat on a pedestal, and next to it, under a dome of bright lights, stood an altar, which made his knees tremble more than the presence of the Goddess. His test awaited. Wylie reached out to the nearest wall to steady himself and found it slippery smooth like a newly cleaned and oiled dunny can.
As depicted in countless drawings and statuettes, Our Lady sat in her Oracle with one leg crossed over the other, the uppermost swinging free of a diaphanous white gown, its neckline plunging to her navel. He looked away, embarrassed, finding it hard to imagine this was a projection. The Goddess was in the sky, constantly moving around the world, her Eye watching everything.
“Wylie Chandler, thank you presenting for the test. My need for warriors grows with the population.”
Wylie grinned. The Goddess had virtually admitted he would be a warrior.
“I must warn you however, you must not take the Test of Faith lightly. Wanting to become a warrior isn’t enough. You must believe this is your only path.”
“I do,” he said, thinking how lucky he was to escape his father’s trade.
“Good, please lie on the altar.” The altar widened and lengthened to accommodate his big frame. “We will talk further and more intimately after you complete the Test of Reason.”
“What? I thought you said the Test of Faith.”
“I did. The Test of Reason is a necessary preliminary.”
“Everyone reckons there’s only one test,” Wylie said, lying back on the altar, wondering at his cheek, questioning the Goddess, but her chatty familiarity had undermined his normal reverence.
“So other candidates tell me a mistaken view I cannot correct while I lack warriors.”
Wylie’s mind spun. He’d thought everything the sers said originated with the Goddess, but she said it didn’t, and she needed more warriors to fix it. If she made him a warrior, he’d get it done. The altar tilted in the same direction when he turned towards her oracle. The Goddess’s intense scrutiny made him think, as common belief held, she was reading his mind. He again looked away.
“The Test of Reason is a preliminary. I will implant a communication device in your head to allow me direct access to your brain. Once you accept my presence in your mind, I can evaluate your willingness to proceed to the Test of Faith. Few have the courage to attempt it.”
“What if I reject your - presence?” he asked, encouraged by her frank explanation, unlike the evasive answers the sers gave.
“You will become a server. I will disconnect your implant. My presence in your mind will cease.”
Ha, thought Wylie, those lemons rejected her. It won’t happen to me. He would take the real test and become a warrior. Wow! Willard had told him servers took the test but failed to become warriors. In fact, severs never took the real test and because the Goddess continued to test candidates, trying to find her Face, he assumed nobody had passed the real test.
“So, you’re telling me nobody’s passed the Test of Face?” he asked.
“Faith, not face. I will test your faith to find my interface. You are correct, no candidate has passed the Test of Faith.”
Staggered by the thought warriors were failures, Wylie dismissed her odd expression–to find my Inner Face. “What else haven’t they told us ... Lady?” he asked, thinking he should change his tone when talking to the Goddess, even if she took no notice.
“The critical fact you need is the Test of Faith is dangerous. In extreme cases, it can kill you.”
“Holy shit—er sorry Lady.”
“My servers say telling candidates they might die, scares them off.”
“Too bloody right.”
“The argument is doubly false. First, I must tell candidates the risks before testing them. Second, those it scares off will not have sufficient faith to pass.”
Wylie paused. The risk made him question the worth of the prize, but the stark truth was his choices remained the same, warrior or shit farmer.
Within the Oracle, the Goddesses image stood. “Bearing the risk in mind, I must formally ask you Wylie Chandler will you submit to my test?”
“Hang on a minute, this first part, the Test of ...” he stopped. He might be a strong candidate, but for Goddess’s sake, he shouldn’t keep interrupting her.
“Reason,” the Goddess supplied, her irises changing colour, becoming a reflection of his, amber and deep blue.
“Yeah that, is that dangerous?”
“The risk is comparable to riding a horse.”
Riding horses wasn’t dangerous, he thought, despite knowing people had died after falling off. “What if I want to stop now?”
“Do you?”
“Dunno.” Shit, there I go again. “I’m not sure.”
“Many, unable to decide, take temporary under server positions.”
Wylie thinking about the life he’d be leaving, decided aiming for second best was like planning to fail. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what exactly Wylie?”
“All of it, both tests.”
“Your hesitations worry me. You need to be certain.”
“I am. I must be a warrior or die trying.”
* * *
An image flashed into Wylie’s mind as the Goddess posed a question, her voice as clear as his own thoughts, yet her lips weren’t moving.
[What can you see Wylie?]
[Looks like a doughnut tied with string floating in the night sky. I can see stars,] he thought back. Thinking back at her differed from ordinary thinking.
[This is what you call Severne’s Eye, the orbiting space platform from which I monitor Nuaith.]
I’m doing it, he thought with glee. He’d accepted her voice in his head, and was taking the Test of Faith, certain he would become a warrior. Another image replaced the doughnut, then another in quick succession. A torrent of images followed: moving images, images with sounds and/or smells. He recognised little, yet understood everything while in another part of his mind, he questioned how he could smell an image.
The blinding blur of images diverged: drawings, numbers, patterns, people strange and familiar, bizarre animals, explosions of colourful vegetation. In a compressed instant, seeds burst, grew rapidly, aged, died, and fell to rot. The unending stream merged into a single, slowly pulsing, white light. Wylie felt his brain trying to push out of his skull. He hadn’t imagined it would be this bad. It started hurting.
[Stop!]
A temporary blankness followed excruciating pain as he pulled out of the head restraint.
Suddenly, all Wylie’s cares drained away. He sat up and looked around. The bright lights were off and men in black robes ran around him like headless chickens. They didn’t look as happy as he felt. A man in a red robe stood before him. Wylie saw his lips flicker and a voice reached his ears.
“Do you remember me Wylie? I’m Arch Server Miller?”
“Your robe is pretty,” Wylie said. It felt good saying nice things.
The red-robed man left and a black-robed man took Wylie’s arm. Black robes were servers, Wylie knew. He was a warrior. He’d get a green robe and a sword. His thoughts pleased him, but thinking them was hard.
“This way Wylie,” the server said.
“I’m Wylie. What’s your name?” He squinted as the bright lights came back on.
“I’m Ser Tomas. Don’t you remember me?”
“Are you my friend?”
“I’m your server.”
“Do you have my sword?”
His friend, the server named Tomas, gave him a funny look, and didn’t answer as he led Wylie down an empty corridor to a smaller room without pretty lights, and spoke to another server waiting inside.
“Sev Miller said you could help him,” his friend Tomas said.
The other server sat Wylie in a chair and held up a needle. “I can,” he said, tapping it. “The test fried both the implant and his brain. It’s rare, but it happens and he isn’t the worst. Our Lady ignores failures. Hold him,” said needle server coming towards Wylie,
“Will you be my friend too?” asked Wylie, as the needle pricked his shoulder.
“What happens to them?” his friend Tomas asked.
“What can’t happen is letting them loose; it would disrupt business.”
The gentle buzzing in Wylie’s ears made him feel sleepy. He felt himself slipping off the chair, but before everything blurred, he felt needle server tap his head and say, “Once his implant’s out, we’ll send him to Thornton Abbey. The wilds are ...”
2 Aderic
The Shadows were cold, not the snow covered cold of the Icelands, but dry acerbic cold. Aderic kept warm stacking sheaves of hay; itchy work. He sneezed, took a sip from his canteen and, scratching his muzzle, walked across to the loft door, and gazed out at the mountain range called the Shadows, which gave this entire deprived district its name. Like other families with mutated children to hide, his family eked out an existence in the range’s barren foothills.
His wide, elevated nostrils detected a faint, out-of-place smell. He turned his muzzle into the light breeze, catching a whiff of drying sweat, both of pony and long-unwashed bodies. He stepped to the loft door’s edge, his gaze following where his nostrils led. Out past the hoist, he saw eight riders, one more than a properly formed warband, which meant they had a soft-arsed Seeker of Mutations to protect.
